


Glass Houses

by oceansinmychest



Series: The Goldfish [2]
Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut, F/F, Grief/Mourning, Identity Issues, Memory Loss, Past Abuse, Reflection, Reminiscing, Season/Series 08, Slow Burn, Unofficial Sequel, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:34:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27717542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: It's a sad, familiar tune: Vera Bennett visits Joan Ferguson, now Kath Maxwell, with a memory suppressed, an identity forgotten, and a past between them lost to the tide of miscommunication. Vera keeps coming back and Kath lets her. Vera lets Kath (Joan, not Joan, never Joan) back in.
Relationships: Vera Bennett/Joan Ferguson, Vera Bennett/Kath Maxwell
Series: The Goldfish [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/805101
Comments: 3
Kudos: 17





	Glass Houses

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KryssiKakes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KryssiKakes/gifts).



> This multi-chaptered story deals with lapses in memory, the confusion of identity, past memories, unresolved conflict, and draws references to my fic from a few years ago, The Goldfish. All chapter titles are named after songs from Chelsea Wolfe’s latest album, Birth of Violence (2019). This work is an (un)official sequel to The Goldfish; however, you can read it on its own. Here is the link to the original work, The Goldfish: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10411887/chapters/22992084 
> 
> A lot happened in Season 8. I’ve only watched the season once so my memory isn’t on point. Allow me to preface this piece by saying that this is strongly canon divergent. I will be delving into my own take deviating from what has been told and sold to us. I riff off the original material to create a cacophony of grief to skirt around what is unsaid (what is undone) between them. What that means is that this fic will present a series of interactions between Vera and Kath, Vera and Joan; some harsh, some painful, some in mourning, but not nearly as violent to the show’s truth.
> 
> This is an early birthday gift for my friend, Kryssi, who inspires me to keep on trucking and keep on writing. Your love for The Goldfish brought this to light. I’m thankful for you. Happy Birthday, mate.

> “I don’t understand this uncontainable grief.  
> Whatever you had that never fit,  
> Whatever else you needed, believe me.”  
>  _Special Orders_ – Edward Hirsch

Industries Manager Vera Bennett holds in the breath that’s been rattling around her lungs since the travesty of the Kangaroo Court. The death sentence, the rigged noose, haunts her as much as it must have haunted Joan Ferguson in Medical, her eyes bloodshot and pleading. At the memory, she conceals her quivering lips with a small, shaky palm.

Vera spares a glance at Dr. Gregory Miller who, in all due diligence, stands by her side. He folds his hands behind his back, knuckles grazing his tailbone. He shrugs his shoulders with the ghost of a frown in place. This career, along with a myriad of childhood trauma, has taught her a great deal about vigilance. She notes his concerned expression, brows furrowed, lines screwed tight. The good doctor demonstrates his care in little ways: small gestures that carry profound meaning and weight. She recalls his floral arrangement for an apology, but more importantly, she sees how he treats the women. He listens to understand; that makes all the difference.

Wentworth’s dismal halls feel oppressive, suffocating, akin to a sinister hand lovingly enveloping a thin, warbling throat. Brick by brick threatens impending collapse, the inevitability that everyone and anyone will fall apart from within.

In her designated holding unit, a monolith of a woman tries to make herself smaller than she is taller. It doesn’t work. Joan Ferguson (why do they all _declare_ her to be someone she doesn’t know?) hunches her shoulders so high they threaten to nip her ear lobes. She drops them, her back curving, her spine weak and malleable. The strong voice of a man, in the back of her static mind, barks at her to stand straight, to assume the correcT stance: whatever that means, whatever uncertainty that such a confusing thing entails. Her ratty, gray jacket follows faint, mechanical movement, phantom gestures of who she used to be. Her eyes, akin to a frightened animal, dart about. Cornered, paranoia compels her to look every which way even within the confines of a cell, finding nowhere to be safe and no one to be particularly kind.

Detached from the cot propped against the wall, Ferguson spins in a sad, little half-circle.

The gesture reminds Vera of her childhood, when Mum made the pre-emptive decision to put her treasured family dog, Joy, down. Rita’s words echo louder than the blood rushing through her skull: _she was old, it was her time._ Or was it just an act of heinous cruelty?

Vera experiences a sharp pang in her chest, a heat akin to a fever: that’s the price of guilt, of sorrow that manipulates itself into outrage.

What happened to the architect of typhonic destruction? To the Machiavellian villain they all feared, loathed, and even revered?

Shame washes over Vera. Renders her cool and clammy. Her palms sweat. Blunt nails graze her skin. The cuffs to her charcoal black blazer grip her wrists like metal shackles. She shakes and twists her wrists before slipping her hands into her pockets. She feels her keys, warmed by her body, and her wallet against her hip, present yet detached by a layer of fabric.

 _How did we get here?_ Vera wonders after swallowing the familiar lump in her throat and the bile that touches the back of her tongue.

Bewildered, Joan (not Joan, never Joan) sits on the bed. The mattress sags beneath her weight. The springs stiffen and loosen like a poorly tuned machine.

Kath’s fingers – scarred from an incident she cannot recall, but only feel – convulse; her hands transform into malformed claws. There is a near-arthritic ache, coupled with a palpable burn. Why does the painting of a past saint cross her mind? A woman in a suit of armor, tied to the stake, with the flames lapping ever higher? She will talk to Dr. Miller of her vision, her remembrance, when she is less timid, less afraid.

Kath Maxwell has experienced the disgust of the inmates firsthand (along with that self-loathing), the daggers of accusation pointed directly at her body, her presence, no matter where she goes and where she hides. In her holding unit, the mattress sinks beneath her weight despite already being lived in.

Through the looking glass, their eyes meet, black on blue, but Vera notices a discernible lack of venom. A curiosity lingers within Ferguson-not Ferguson’s stare, and the naïve innocence in the gesture unsettles Vera to the core.

 _Fuck_ , she should have left behind corrections while she had the chance. Should have skipped down with Grace and settled down elsewhere – a new career, or a life solely devoted to her daughter.

Would she remember the letters? Kath would not, Vera suspects, with the way her shoulders shudder and how her hands clutch her shawl ever tighter. Kath would not, but Joan kept Vera’s letter from the hospital, kept it even on the run, even when homeless and hiding in another tin-can cell.

“Let me in,” Vera begs, never adverse to stooping so low. “Let me in. I have to – need to – bloody speak to her.”

So her regret, guilt, and poorly concealed fury eat away at her. Maybe that’s why her mother often accused her of having no appetite before tossing her plate into the bin.

“Vera,” Dr. Miller begins, tone soft and consolatory. He motions to grip her shoulder. A little squeeze to ground her. “That isn’t Joan Ferguson. Please proceed with caution and refer to her as her chosen name, Kath Maxwell.”

“Kath,” she repeats. The name tastes strange, unfamiliar, far more acrid than a shot of espresso. “No, no. I don’t care who she claims to be. Just let me in. Please.”

Already, she stands in front of the heavy metal door. The blood rushing through her ears sounds louder than a storm. She cannot see through the veil of her lashes, as if screen fatigue pricks her eyes, and subverts her vision once more.

And once more, Vera Bennett seems to be visiting Joan Ferguson at Sinclair.

Once more, history sings a sad, bleating tune in the hopes of amnesty.

> "You were right, you were right: hell is on earth, hell is on earth."
> 
> _Preface to a Dream Play_ – Chelsea Wolfe

**Author's Note:**

> Updates for this fic will take quite a long time due to the fact that I’m a working PhD student along with a myriad of other reasons. Thank y’all for your patience. Much love, be safe, be kind. <3


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